RLF 


B    3    255 


Clarfe 

of  feun  anb  feabblf 


JUuStrattb  tip  U.  9.  Huffman 


Deeply  the  buffalo  trod  it, 

Beating  it  barren  as  brass; 
Now  the  soft  rain-fingers  sod  it, 
Green  to  the  crest  of  the  pass. 
Backivard  it  slopes  into  history; 
Forward  it  lifts  into  mystery. 

Here  is  but  wind  in  the  grass. 

The  Buffalo  Trail,  page,  62 


GRASS-GROWN  TRAILS 

By  BADGER   CLARK,   Author   of 
SUN  AND  SADDLE  LEATHER 


ILLUSTRATIONS  FROM  PHOTOGRAPHS   BY 

L.   A.  HUFFMAN 


BOSTON:  RICHARD    G.  BADGER 

TORONTO:  THE  COPP  CLA^K-CO.;,  XMTED 


COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BY  RICHARD  G.  BADGER 
ILLUSTRATIONS  COPYRIGHTED  BY  L.  A.  HUFFMAN 


All  Rights  Reserved 


'd^  wtt  the  United  States  of  Americ? 


,        «    I.., 
»  W  \  *•['   /Tbe'Gorham  Press,  Boston,  U.  S. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The   Coyote  ......       -       -       -9 

The  Free  Wind  .       .       .       .       .       .      '.       .10 

The  Medicine  Man 12 

The  Piano  at  Red's  . H 

A    Ranger      . 16 

On  the   Drive 19 

Saturday  Night 21 

Southwestern   June 22 

The  Night  Herder 24 

Hawse  Work 26 

Half-Breed 28 

To  Her 29 

The  Locoed  Horse 3O 

The  Long  Way 32 

Freightin' 34 

The   Rains 37 

The  Border 4° 

The  Bad  Lands 43 

The   Springtime   Plains 45 

On    the    Oregon    Trail 46 

The  Forest  Rangers 4$ 

The  Yellow  Stuff        .       .       .       .       .       .       -49 

The    Sheep-Herder      .       .  0 5* 

3 


J.fiO-1 


CONTENTS 

The  Old  Prospector  . 

God  of  the  Open  .... 

The  Passing  of  the  Trail  . 

,      .  • 

.Latigo   Town ^ 

The  Buffalo  Trail      .  '  ^ 

The   Camp   Fire's   Song  ... 


AGE 

55 
57 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


Deeply  the  buffalo  trod  it, 

Beating  it  barren  as  brass; 
Now  the  soft  rain-fingers  sod  it, 

Green  to  the  crest  of  the  pass. 
Backward  it  slopes  into  history; 
Forward  it  lifts  into  mystery. 

Here  is  but  wind  in  the  grass.— Frontispiece. 


PAGE 

For  the  wind,  the  wind,  the  good  free  wind, 

She  sang  from  the  pine  divide 
That  the  sky  was  blue  and  the  young  years  few 

And  the  world  was  big  and  wide!        .         .10 

Some  dream  ahead  to  pastures  green, 

Some  stare  ahead  to  slaughter, 
But,  anyway,  night  drops  between 

And  brings  us  rest  and  water.      .         .         .20 

Sing  me  the  song  of  the  buffalo  run 

To  the  edge  of  the  canyon  snare, 
With  the  roaring  plunge  when  the  meat  was  won 
And  the  flash  of  knives  in  the  low  red  sun 

And  the  good  blood  smell  in  the  air.         .     28 

5 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


Forty  miles  from   Taggart's  store, 

Fifty  yet  to  grind, 
Heavin    six  strung  out  before, 

Trailer  snubbed  behind; 
Half  a  world  of  glarin    sand 

Pray  in    for  a  tree, 
Nothin    movin    'cross  the  land 

But  the  sun   and  me. 


FACING 
PAGE 


34 


No  fresh  green  things  in  the  Bad  Lands  bide; 

It  is  all  stark  red  and  gray, 
And  strewn  with  bones  that  had  lived  and  died 

Ere  the  first  man  saw   the  day.         .         .     44 

A-a!  ma-a!  ba-a!  eh-eh-eh! 

My  woollies  greasy  gray 52 

Latigo   Town,  ay,  Latigo   Town, 
Child  of  the  mesa  sun-flooded  and  brown.        .     60 


GRASS  GROWN  TRAILS 


THE  COYOTE 

Trailing  the  last  gleam  after, 
In  the  valleys  emptied  of  light, 

Ripples  a  whimsical  laughter 
Under  the  wings  of  the  night. 

Mocking  the  faded  west  airily, 

Meeting  the  little  bats  merrily, 
Over  the  mesas  it  shrills 
To  the  red  moon  on  the  hills. 

Mournfully  rising  and  waning, 

Far  through  the  moon-silvered  land 

Wails  a  weird  voice  of  complaining 
Over  the  thorns  and  the  sand. 

Out  of  blue  silences  eerily. 

On  to  the  black  mountains  wearily, 
Till  the  dim  desert  is  crossed, 
Wanders  the  cry,  and  is  lost. 

Here  by  the  fire's  ruddy  streamers, 

Tired  with  our  hopes  and  our  fears, 
We  inarticulate  dreamers 

Hark  to  the  song  of  our  years. 
Up  to  the  brooding  divinity 
Far  in  that  sparkling  infinity 

Cry  our  despair  and  delight, 

Voice  of  the  Western  night ! 


THE  FREE  WIND 

I  went  and  worked  in  a  drippin'  mine 

'Mong  the  rock  and  the  oozin'  wood, 
For  the  dark  seemed  lit  with  a  dollar  sign 

And  they  told  me  money's  good. 
So  I  jumped  and  sweat  for  a  flat-foot  boss 

Till  my  pocket  bulged  with  pay, 
But  my  heart  it  fought  like  a  led  bronc'  hawse 

Till  I  flung  my  drill  away. 

For  the  wind,  the  wind,  the  good  free  wind, 

She  sang  from  the  pine  divide 
That  the  sky  was  blue  and  the  young  years  few 

And  the  world  was  big  and  wide! 
From  the  poor,  bare  hills  all  gashed  with  scars 

I  rode  till  the  range  was  crossed; 
Then  I  watched  the  gold  of  sunset  bars 
And  my  camp-sparks  glintin'  toward  the  stars 

And  laughed  at  the  pay  I'd  lost. 

I  went  and  walked  in  the  city  way 

Down  a  glitterin'  canyon  street, 
For  the  thousand  lights  looked  good  and  gay 

And  they  said  life  there  was  sweet. 
So  the  wimmen  laughed  while  night  reeled  by 

And  the  wine  ran  red  and  gold, 
But  their  laugh  was  the  starved  wolf's  huntin*  cry 

And  their  eyes  were  hard  and  old. 
10 


And  the  wind,  the  wind,  the  clean  free  wind, 

She  laughed  through  the  April  rains: 
"Come  out  and  live  by  the  wine  I  give 

In  the  smell  of  the  greenin'  plains!" 
And  I  looked  back  once  to  the  smoky  towers 

Where  my  face  had  bleached  so  pale, 
Then  loped  through  the  lash  of  drivin'  showers 
To  the  uncut  sod  and  the  prairie  flowers 

And  the  old  wide  life  o'  the  trail. 

I  went  and  camped  in  the  valley  trees 

Where  the  thick  leaves  whispered  rest, 
For  love  lived  there  'mong  the  honey  bees, 

And  they  told  me  love  was  best. 
There  the  twilight  lanes  were  cool  and  dim 

And  the  orchards  pink  with  May, 
Yet  my  eyes  they'd  lift  to  the  valley's  rim 

Where  the  desert  reached  away. 

And  the  wind,  the  wind,  the  wild  free  wind, 

She  called  from  the  web  love  spun 
To  the  unbought  sand  of  the  lone  trail  land 

And  the  sweet  hot  kiss  o'  the  sun ! 
Oh,  I  looked  back  twice  to  the  valley  lass, 

Then  I  set  my  spurs  and  sung, 
For  the  sun  sailed  up  above  the  pass 
And  the  mornin'  wind  was  in  the  grass 

And  my  hawse  and  me  was  young. 


ii 


THE  MEDICINE  MAN 

"The  trail  is  long  to  the  bison  herd, 

The  prairie  rotten  with  rain, 
And  look!  the  wings  of  the  thunder  bird 

Blacken  the  hills  again. 
A  medicine  man  the  gods  may  balk — 
Go  fight  for  us  with  the  thunder  hawk!" 

The  medicine  man  flung  out  his  arms. 

"I  am  weary  of  woman  talk 
And  cook-fire  witching  and  childish  charms! 

I  fight  you  the  thunder  hawk!" 
Then  he  took  his  arrows  and  climbed  the  butte 
While  the  warriors  watched  him,  scared  and  mute. 

A  wind  from  the  wings  began  to  blow 

And  the  arrows  of  rain  to  shoot, 
As  the  medicine  man  raised  high  his  bow, 

Standing  alone  on  the  butte, 
And  the  day  went  dark  to  the  cowering  band 
As  the  arrow  leaped  from  his  steady  hand. 

For  the  thunder  hawk  swooped  down  to  fight 

And  who  in  his  way  could  stand? 
The  flash  of  his  eye  was  blinding  bright 

And  his  wing-clap  stunned  the  land. 
The  braves  yelled  terror  and  loosed  the  rain 
And  scattered  far  on  the  drowning  plain. 
12 


So,  after  the  thunder  hawk  swept  by, 
They  found  him,  scorched  and  slain, 

Yet  (fighting  with  gods,  who  fears  to  die?) 
He  smiled  with  a  light  disdain. 

That  smile  was  glory  to  all  his  clan 

But  none  dared  touch  the  medicine  man. 


THE  PIANO  AT  RED'S 

'Twas  a  hole  called  Red's  Saloon 

In  La  Vaca  town; 
'Twas  an  old  piano  there, 

Blistered,  marred  and  brown, 
And  a  man  more  battered  still, 

Takin'  drinks  for  fees, 
Played  all  night  from  memory 

On  the  yellow  keys. 

While  the  glasses  clinked  and  clashed 

On    the   sloppy  bar, 
That  piano's  dreamy  voice 

Took  you  out  and  far, 
Ridin'  old,  forgotten  trails 

Underneath  the  moon, 
Till  you  heard  a  drunken  yell 

Back  in  Red's  Saloon. 

Whirr  of  wheel  and  slap  of  cards, 

Talk  of  loss  and  gain, 
Mixed  with  hum  of  honey  bees 

Down  a  sunny  lane. 
Glimpses  of  your  mother's  face, 

Touch  of  girlish  lips 
Often  made  you  lose  your  count 

As  you  stacked  your  chips. 


Scufflin'  feet  and  thud  of  fists, 

Curses  hot  as  fire — 
Still  the  music  sang  of  love, 

Longin',   lost   desire, 
Dreams  that  never  could  have  been, 

Joys  that  couldn't  stay — 
While  the  man  upon  the  floor 

Wiped  the  blood  away. 

Then,  some  way,  it  followed  you, 

Slept  upon  your  breast, 
Trailed  you  out  across  the  range, 

Never  let  you  rest; 
And  for  days  and  days  you'd  hum 

Just  one  scrap  of  tune — 
Funny  place  for  music,  though, 

Back  in  Red's  Saloon ! 


A  RANGER 

He  never  made  parade  of  tooth  or  claw ; 

He  was  plain  as  us  that  nursed  the  bawlin'  herds. 
Though  he  had  a  rather  meanin'-lookin'  jaw, 

He  was  shy  of  exercisin'  it  with  words. 
As  a  circuit-ridin'  preacher  of  the  law, 

All  his  preachin'  was  the  sort  that  hit  the  nail; 
He  was  just  a  common  ranger,  just  a  ridin'  pilgrim 
stranger, 

And  he  labored  with  the  sinners  of  the  trail. 

Once  a  Yaqui  knifed  a  woman,  jealous  mad, 

Then  hit  southward  with  the  old,   old  killer's 

plan, 
And  nobody  missed  the  woman  very  bad, 

While  they'd  just  a  little  rather  missed  the  man. 
But  the  ranger  crossed  his  trail  and  sniffed  it  glad, 

And  then  loped  away  to  bring  him  back  again, 
For  he  stood  for  peace  and  order  on  the  lonely, 
sunny  border 

And  his  business  was  to  hunt  for  sinful  men ! 

So  the  trail  it  led  him  southward  all  the  day, 
Through  the  shinin'  country  of  the  thorn  and 

snake, 
Where  the  heat  had  drove  the  lizards  from  their 

play 

To  the  shade  of  rock  and  bush  and  yucca  stake. 
16 


And  the  mountains  heaved  and  rippled  far  away 
And  the  desert  broiled  as  on  the  devil's  prong 
But  he  didn't  mind  the  devil  if  his  head  kep'  clear 

and  level 

And  the  hoofs  beat  out  their  quick  and  steady 
song. 

Came  the  yellow  west,  and  on  a  faroff  rise 

Something  black  crawled  up  and  dropped  beyond 

the  rim, 

And  he  reached  his  rifle  out  and  rubbed  his  eyes 
While  he  cussed  the  southern  hills  for  growin' 

dim. 
Down  a  hazy  'royo  came  the  coyote  cries, 

Like  they  laughed  at  him  because  he'd  lost  his 

mark, 
And  the  smile  that  brands  a  fighter  pulled  his  mouth 

a  little  tighter 
As  he  set  his  spurs  and  rode  on  through  the  dark. 

Came  the  moonlight  on  a  trail  that  wriggled  higher 

Through  the  mountains  that  look  into  Mexico, 
And  the  shadows  strung  his  nerves  like  banjo  wire 
And  the  miles  and  minutes  dragged  unearthly 

slow. 
Then  a  black  mesquit  spit  out  a  thread  of  fire 

And  the  canyon  walls  flung  thunder  back  again, 
And  he  caught  himself  and  fumbled  at  his  rifle  while 

he  grumbled 

That  his  bridle  arm  had  weight  enough  for  ten. 
17 


Though  his  rifle  pointed  wavy-like  and  slack 

And  he  grabbed  for  leather  at  his  hawse's  shy, 
Yet  he  sent  a  soft-nosed  exhortation  back 

That  convinced  the  sinner — just  above  the  eye. 
So  the  sinner  sprawled  among  the  shadows  black 

While  the  ranger  drifted  north  beneath  the  moon, 
Wabblin'  crazy  in  his  saddle,'  workin'  hard  to  stay 
astraddle 

While  the  hoofs  beat  out  a  slow  and  sorry  tune. 

When  the  sheriff  got  up  early  out  of  bed, 

How  he  stared  and  vowed  his  soul  a  total  loss, 
As  he  saw  the  droopy  thing  all  blotched  with  red 

That  came  ridin'  in  aboard  a  tremblin'  hawse. 
But  "I  got  'im"  was  the  most  the  ranger  said 

And  you  couldn't  hire  him,  now,  to  tell  the  tale; 
He  was  just  a  quiet  ranger,  just  a  ridin'  pilgrim 
stranger 

And  he  labored  with  the  sinners  of  the  trail. 


18 


ON  THE  DRIVE 

Oh,  days  whoop  by  with  swingin'  lope 

And  days  slip  by  a-sleepin', 
And  days  must  drag,  with  lazy  rope, 

Along  the  trail  a-creepin'. 
Heeya-a!  you  cattle;  drift  away! 
Heeyow!  the  slow  hoofs  sift  away 
And  sunny  dust  clouds  lift  away, 

Along  the  trail  a-creepin'. 

My  pard  may  sing  of  sighin'  love 

And  I  of  roarin'  battle, 
But  all  the  time  we  sweat  and  shove 

And  follow  up  the  cattle. 
Heeya-a !  the  bawlin'  crowd  of  you ! 
Heeyow  the  draggin'  cloud  of  you! 
We're  glad  and  gay  and  proud  of  you, 

We  men  that  follow  cattle ! 

But  all  the  world's  a  movin'  herd 
Where  men  drift  on  together, 

And  some  may  spur  and  some  are  spurred, 
But  most  are  horns  and  leather! 

Heeya-a !  the  rider  sings  along, 

Heeyow!  the  reined  hawse  swings  along 

And  drifts  and  drags  and  flings  along 
The  mob  of  horns  and  leather. 


The  outlaws  fight  to  break  away; 

The  weak  and  lame  are  crawlin', 
But  only  dead  ones  quit  the  play, 

The  dust-cloud  and  the  bawlin'. 
Heeya-a!  it's  grief  and  strife  to  us; 
Heeyow !  it's  child  and  wife  to  us ; 
By  leap  or  limp,  it's  life  to  us  ; 
The  dust-cloud  and  the  bawlin'. 

Some  dream  ahead  to  pastures  green, 
Some  stare  ahead  to  slaughter, 

But,  anyway,  night  drops  between 
And  brings  us  rest  and  water. 

Heeya-a!  you  cattle,  drift  away! 

Heeyow!  the  dust-clouds  lift  away; 

The  glarin'  miles  will  shift  away 
And  leave  us  rest  and  water. 


20 


' 


l'l 


SATURDAY  NIGHT 

Out  from  the  ranch  on  a  Saturday  night, 
Ridin'  a  hawse  that's  a  shootin'  star, 

Close  on  the  flanks  of  the  flyin'  daylight, 
Racin'  with  dark  for  the  J  L  Bar. 

Fox-trot  and  canter  will  do  for  the  day; 

It's  a  gallop,  my  love,  when  I'm  ridin'  your  way. 

Up  the  arroyo  the  trippin'  hoofs  beat, 

Flingin'  the  hinderin'  gravel  wide; 
Now  your  light  glimmers  across  the  mesquite, 

Glimpsed  from  the  top  of  a  rocky  divide; 
Down  through  a  draw  where  the  shadows  are  gay 
I'm  comin',  my  darlin',  I'm  ridin'  your  way. 

West,  where  the  sky  is  a-blushin'  afar, 

Matchin'  your  cheeks  as  the  daylight  dies, 

West,  where  the  shine  of  a  glitterin'  star 
Hints  of  the  light  I  will  find  in  your  eyes, 

Night-birds  are  passin'  the  signal  to  say: 

"He's  comin',  my  lady,  he's  ridin'  your  way." 

Hoof-beats  are  measurin'  seconds  so  fast, 
Clickin'  them  off  with  an  easy  rhyme ; 

Minutes  will  grow  into  months  at  the  last, 
Mebbe  to  bring  us  a  marryin'  time. 

Life  would  be  singin'  and  work  would  be  play 

If  every  night  I  was  ridin'  your  way. 
21 


SOUTHWESTERN  JUNE 

Lazy  little  hawse,  it's  noon 

And  we've  wasted  saddle  leather, 

But  the  mornin's  slip  so  soon 
When  we  drift  around  together 
In  this  lazy,  shinin'  weather, 

Sunny,  easy-goin'  June. 

Who  kin  study  shamblin'  herds, 
How  they  calve  or  die  or  wander, 

When  the  bridegroom  mockin'-birds, 
Singin'  here  and  there  and  yonder, 
Trill  that  June's  too  bright  to  ponder 

And  life's  just  too  fine  for  words! 

Down  the  desert's  hazy  blue 

See  the  tall  gray  whirlwinds  farin', 

Slow,  contented  sort  of  crew 
Trailin'  'cross  the  sunny  barren, 
Headed  nowhere  and  not  carin' 

Just  the  same  as  me  and  you. 

From  a  world  of  unfenced  room 
Just  a  breath  of  breeze  is  strayin', 

Triflin'  with  the  yucca  bloom 
Till  its  waxy  bells  are  swayin', 
On  my  cheek  warm  kisses  layin' 

Soft  as  touch  of  ostrich  plume. 
22 


When  the  July  lightnin'  gleams 

This  brown  range  will  start  to  workin', 

Hills  be  green  and  tricklin'  streams 
Down  each  deep  arroyo  lurkin'; 
Now  the  sleepy  land  is  shirkin', 

Drowzin',  smilin'  in  her  dreams. 

Steppin'  little  hawse,  it's  noon. 

Turquoise  blue  the  far  hills  glimmer; 

"Sun — sun — sun,"  the  mockers  croon 
Where  the  yellow  range  lands  shimmer, 
And  our  sparklin'  spirits  simmer 

For  we're  young  yet,  and  it's  June! 


THE  NIGHT  HERDER 

I  laughed  when  the  dawn  was  a-peepin* 
And  swore  in  the  blaze  of  the  noon, 

But  down  from  the  stars  is  a-creepin' 
A  softer,  oneasier  tune. 
Away,  and  away,  and  away, 
The  whisperin'  night  seems  to  say 

Though  the  trail-weary  cattle  are  sleepin' 
And  the  desert  dreams  under  the  moon. 

By  day,  if  the  roarin'  herd  scatters, 

My  heart  it  is  steady  and  set, 
But  now,  when  they're  quiet,  it  patters 

Like  the  ball  in  a  spinnin'  roulette. 

Away,  and  away,  and  away 

To  the  rim  where  the  heat  lightnin's  play — 
Out  there  is  the  one  trail  that  matters 

To  the  valley  I  never  forget. 

There's  a  pass  where  the  black  shadows  shiver, 

Then  a  desert  all  silvery  blue, 
A  divide,  and  the  breaks  by  the  river, 

Then  a  light  in  the  valley — and  you! 

Away,  and  away,  and  away — 

'Tis  a  month  till  I  see  you  by  day, 
But  under  the  moon  it's  forever 

And  the  weary  trail  winds  the  world  through. 


24 


The  coyotes  are  laughin'  out  yonder, 
A  happy  owl  whoops  on  the  hill — 

Oh,  wild,  lucky  things  that  kin  wander 
As  far  and  as  free  as  they  will! 
Away,  and  away,  and  away, 
And  I  that  am  wilder  than  they 

Must  loll  in  my  saddle  and  ponder 
Or  sing  for  the  cows  to  be  still! 

I  see  the  dark  river  waves  wrinkle  ; 

The  valley  trees  droop  in  a  swoon  ; 
You're  dreamin'  where  valley  bells  tinkle 

And  half-asleep  mockin'-birds  croon. 

Away,  and  away,  and  away — 

Do  your  dainty  dreams  ever  stray 
To  a  camp  where  the  desert  stars  twinkle 

And  a  lone  rider  sings  to  the  moon? 


HAWSE  WORK 

Stop!  there's  the  wild  bunch  to  right  of  the  trail, 
Heads  up  and  ears  up  and  ready  to  sail, 
Led  by  a  mare  with  the  green  in  her  eyes, 
Mean  as  the  devil  and  nearly  as  wise. 
Circle  'em,  boys,  and  the  pass  is  the  place; 
Settle  your  heels  for  a  rowelin'  race. 

Oh,  hawse  work !  the  sweep  and  the  drift  of  it ! 

Hawse  work !  the  leap  and  the  lift  of  it ! 
Who  wants  to  fly  in  the  empty  blue  sky 

When  he  kin  ride  on  the  hawse  work! 

Ai!  and  they're  off  in  a  whirlwind.     So! 
Straight  in  the  line  we  don't  want  'em  to  go  ; 
Light-footed,  wild-hearted,  look  at  'em  flit! 
Head  'em,  now!  rowel,  and  turn  loose  the  bit! 
Whee!  and  the  rip  and  the  rush  and  the  beat, 
Rattlin'  rocks  and  the  whippin'  mesquit! 

Oh,  hawse  work !  the  swing  and  the  swell  of  it ! 

Hawse  work !  the  sing  and  the  yell  of  it ! 
Holler  goodbye  to  the  dull  and  the  dry; 

Leave  'em  behind  on  the  hawse  work. 

Shorty  is  down  with  his  hawse  in  a  heap; 
Might  have  pulled  in  for  a  gully  so  deep. 
Reddy  he  rides  like  he's  tired  of  his  life; 
26 


Ought  to  be  thinkin'  he's  got  a  wife — 

Shrinkin'  and  thinkin'  of  bones  that  may  crunch? 

No!     Yip!  we've  headed  the  mare  and  her  bunch! 

Oh,  hawse  work!  the  rip  and  the  tear  of  it! 

Hawse  work !  the  dip  and  the  dare  of  it ! 
Life  flutters  high  when  you're  lookin'  to  die  ; 

That  is  the  fun  of  the  hawse  work. 

Hi!  and  you're  foolish  for  once,  old  lass, 
Streakin'  it  straight  for  the  trap  in  the  pass. 
Into  the  canyon  the  hoof-thunder  drums — 
Where  is  that  holdup  ?     Hmp !  there  he  comes, 
Crow-hoppin'  down  from  the  bluff — too  late! 
Damn!  and  they're  gone  for  a  tour  of  the  State! 

Oh,  hawse  work,  the  rant  and  the  fuss  of  it! 

Hawse  work!  the  pant  and  the  cuss  of  it! 
Yet  when  I  sigh  and  the  world  is  a  lie 

Give  rne  a  day  on  the  hawse  work ! 


HALF-BREED 

Fathers  with  eyes  of  ancient  ire, 

Old  eagles  shorn  of  flight, 
Forget  the  breed  of  my  blue-eyed  sire 
While  I  sit  this  hour  by  the  council  fire, 

All  red  in  the  fire's  red  light. 

Chant  me  the  day  of  the  war-steed's  prance 

And  the  signal  fires  on  the  buttes, 
Of  the  Cheyenne  scalps  on  the  lifted  lance, 
Of  the  women  raped  from  the  Pawnee  dance 

And  the  wild  death  trail  of  the  Utes. 

Sing  me  the  song  of  the  buffalo  run 

To  the  edge  of  the  canyon  snare, 
With  the  roaring  plunge  when  the  meat  was  won 
And  the  flash  of  knives  in  the  low  red  sun 

And  the  good  blood  smell  in  the  air. 

Chant  me  the  might  of  the  Manitou — 

But  the  old  song  drags  and  dies. 
Old  things  have  drifted  the  sunset  through 
Till  the  very  God  of  the  land  comes  new 

From  the  rim  where  the  young  stars  rise! 

Fathers,  red  men,  the  red  flame  falls, 

And  over  the  dim  dawn  lands 
My  white  soul  hunts  me  again  and  calls 
To  the  lanes  of  law  and  the  shadow  of  walls 

And  a  woman  with  soft  white  hands. 
28 


"•TK 


Sing  me  the  song  of  the  bn/alo  run 

To  the  edge  of  the  canyon  snare, 
With  the  roaring  plunge  when  the  meat  was  icon 
And  the  flash  of  knives  in  the  low  red  sun 

And  the  good  blood  smell  in  the  air. 


TO  HER 

Cut   loose   a   hundred   rivers, 

Roaring  across  my  trail, 
Swift  as  the  lightning  quivers, 

Loud  as  a  mountain  gale. 
I  build  me  a  boat  of  slivers; 

I  weave  me  a  sail  of  fur, 
And  ducks  may  founder  and  die 
But  I 

Cross  that  river  to  her! 

Bunch  the  deserts  together, 
Hang  three  suns  in  the  vault; 

Scorch  the  lizards  to  leather, 
Strangle  the  springs  with  salt. 

I  fly  with  a  buzzard  feather, 
I  dig  me  wells  with  a  spur, 

And  snakes  may  famish  and  fry 
But  I 

Cross  that  desert  to  her! 

Murder  my  sleep  with  revel; 

Make  me  ride  through  the  bogs 
Knee  to  knee  with  the  devil, 

Just  ahead  of  the  dogs. 
I  harrow  the  Bad  Lands  level, 

I  teach  the  tiger  to  purr, 
For  saints  may  wallow  and  lie 
But  I 

Go  clean-hearted  to  her! 
29 


THE  LOCOED  HORSE 

As  I  was  ridin'  all  alone 

And  winkin'  in  the  noontime  glare, 
I  seen  a  hawse  all  hide  and  bone 

Walk  'round  a  willow  dead  and  bare — 
Walk  'round  and  'round,  with  limp  and  groan, 

And  hunt  the  shade  that  wasn't  there. 
And  then  says  I:     "That  sorry  steed 
Has  been  and  et  the  loco  weed." 

Near  by  a  spreadin'  liveoak  laid 

Its  wide,  cool  shadow  on  the  ground, 

But  then  he  knowed  that  willow's  shade 
Was  just  a  little  further  'round 

And  reckoned,  each  slow  step  he  made, 
That  in  the  next  it  would  be  found. 

There,  like  a  coon,  his  thoughts  were  treed 

Since  he  had  et  the  loco  weed. 

The  water  trail  went  windin'  by, 

The  sweet  brown  grass  furred  every  slope 

And  he  was  ga'nt  and  starved  and  dry, 
Yet,  on  his  ghostly  picket  rope 

Led  'round  and  'round,  he  still  must  try 
That  hopeless  circle  of  his  hope. 

He  didn't  think  of  drink  or  feed 

Since  he  had  et  the  loco  weed. 


A  playful  wild  bunch  topped  the  hill 
And  stared  with  eyes  all  impish  bright 

And  whinnered  to- him  sweet  and  shrill, 

Then  flung  their  heads  and  loped  from  sight, 

Yet  from  that  everlastin'  mill 

They  couldn't  make  him  stray  a  mite. 

He  never  seen  their  gay  stampede 

For  he  had  et  the  loco  weed. 

When  next  that  range  I  had  to  ride 

Beneath  his  willow  tree  he  lay, 
Just  wornout  hoofs  and  faded  hide 

And  big  black  birds  that  flapped  away; 
But  yet  I  reckon  that  he  died 

Still  hopeful — happy — who  kin  say? 
Sometimes  I  think  I  mostly  need 
To  eat  some  sort  of  loco  weed. 


THE  LONG  WAY 

Two  miles  of  ridin'  from  the  school,  without  a  bit 

of  trouble — 
The  main  road  hit  her  father's  ranch  as  straight 

as  you  could  fall. 
I  led  her  by  a  shorter  cut  that  made  the  distance 

double 

And  guided  her  along  a  trail  that  wasn't  there 
at  all. 

The  long  way,  the  long  way,  but  ridin'  it  together 
I  never  cared  a  feather  for  the  length  and  never 

shall, 
With  happy  hoofs  that  shuffled  to  the  singin'  saddle 

leather 

And  laughin'  wind  that  ruffled  sunny  miles  of 
chaparral. 

The  trail  of  our  meanderin'  would  tire  a  wolf  to 

follow ; 
The  range  was  hardly  wide  enough  for  us  to  go 

around. 
I  dared  to  hope  she  liked  it,  bare  hill  and  thorny 

hollow, 

And  prayed  that  all  her  likin'  wasn't  wasted  on 
the  ground. 


The  long  way,  the  long  way,  and  down  the  wind 

we  drifted, 
And  soon  the  sand  was  sifted  in  our  tracks  and 

they  were  gone. 
I  dreamed  of  no  forgettin'  while  to  me  her  face  was 

lifted, 

Nor  knowed  the  sun  was  settin',  for  her  eyes  were 
full  of  dawn. 

Perhaps  I  hoped  that  we  were  lost  without  a  trail 

to  guide  us. 
It  shocked  me  like  a  bullet  when  the  dogs  began 

to  bark, 
And  suddenly,  from  nowhere,  the  ranch  was  there 

beside  us, 

She  reined  away  and  left  me,  and  the  world  was 
in  the  dark. 

The  long  way,  the  long  way,  of  all  my  old  Sep 
tembers, 

Gone  gray  like  campflre  embers  when  the  mid 
night  coyote  shrills, 
One  hour  stays  golden  mellow — do  you  reckon  she 

remembers 

That  sunset  fadin'  yellow  through   the  notches 
of  the  hills? 


33 


FREIGHTIN' 

Forty  miles  from  Taggart's  store, 

Fifty  yet  to  grind, 
Heavin'  six  strung  out  before, 

Trailer  snubbed  behind; 
Half  a  world  of  glarin'  sand 

Prayin'  for  a  tree, 
Nothin'  movin'  'cross  the  land 

But  the  sun  and  me. 

Chuck  an'  luck!  luck  an'  chuck! 

Grunts  the  workin'  wheels; 
Lazy  gust  swirls  up  the  dust 

From  the  hawses'  heels. 
I've  been  young  and  raced  and  sung, 

But  I've  learnt  my  load. 
Slow,  slow,  on  we  go 

Out  the  stretchin'  road. 

Where  the  sky-line  waves  and  breaks 

Shines  a  misty  beach 
And  the  blue  of  ripplin'  lakes — 

Lakes  no  man  kin  reach. 
Just  beyond  my  leaders'  bits 

Winds  the  life  I  know, 
Ruts  and  'royos,  hills  and  pits 

In  a  daylong  row. 


34 


Chuck  an'  luck!  luck  an'  chuck! 

Life's  more  miss  than  hit. 
Luck's  the  thing  I  dream  and  sing; 

Chuck  is  all  I  git ! 
'Neath  the  sky  I  crawl  and  fry 

Like  the  horny  toad. 
Slow,  slow,  on  we  go 

Out  the  stretchin'  road. 

When  I  reach  that  sparklin'  line 

Where  the  ripples  run, 
There'll  be  just  this  road  of  mine 

And  the  dust  and  sun. 
Mebbe  on  my  last  far  hill, 

Where  the  dream-mist  clears, 
I'll  be  freighting  freightin'  still 

Down  the  road  of  years. 

Chuck  an'  luck!  luck  an'  chuck! 

Sky-lines  mostly  lie, 
Yet  they  beat  the  limp  mesquit 

That  goes  trailin'  by. 
Luck  enough  to  move  my  stuff — 

More   I've  never   knowed. 
Slow,  slow,  on  we  go 

Out  the  stretchin'  road. 


35 


Slim  and  far  our  shadow  swings; 

Sun  is  on  his  knees. 
Some  one's  campin'  at  the  springs — 

Smell  it  down  the  breeze. 
Chuck  time,  boys,  and  sleep  besides, 

When  we've  chomped  our  hay. 
Durn  your  dusty,  trusty  hides! 

You've  sho'  earned  your  pay. 

Chuck  an'  luck!  luck  an'  chuck! 

Grunts  the  weary  wheels; 
Dreams  untold  and  sunset  gold, 

Cussin'    sweat   and   meals. 
If  you  kin,  Lord,  let  me  win, 

But  I'll  move  my  load. 
Slow,  slow,  on  we  go 

Out  the  stretchin'  road. 


THE  RAINS 

You've  watched  the  ground-hog's  shadow  and  the 

shiftin'  weather  signs 
Till    the    Northern    prairie    starred    itse'f    with 

flowers  ; 
You've    seen    the    snow    a-meltin'    up    among    the 

Northern  pines 
And    the    mountain    creeks    a-roarin'    with    the 

showers. 
You've    blessed    the    stranger    sunlight    when    the 

Winter  days  were  done 

And  the  Summer  creepin'  down  the  budded  lanes. 
Did  you  ever  see  a  Springtime  in  the  home  range 

of  the  sun, 
When  the  desert  land  is  waitin'  for  the  Rains? 

The  April  days  are  sun  and  sun ;  the  last  thin  cloud 

is  fled. 

It's  gold  above  the  eastern  mountain  crest, 
Then  blaze  upon  the  yellow  range  all  day  from 

overhead 

And  then  a  stripe  of  gold  across  the  west. 
The  dry  wind  mourns  among  the  hills,  a-huntin' 

trees  and  grass, 

Then  down  the  desert  flats  it  rises  higher 
And  sweeps  a  rollin'   dust-storm  up  and  flings  it 

through  the  pass 

And  fills  the  evenin'  west  with  smoulderin'  fire. 
37 


It's  sun  and  sun  without  a  change  the  lazy  length 

o'  May 

And  all  the  little  sun  things  own  the  land. 
The  horned  toad  basks  and  swells  himse'f ;  the  bright 

swifts  dart  and  play; 
The  rattler  hunts  or  dozes  in  the  sand. 
The  wind  comes  off  the  desert  like  it  brushed  a 

bed  of  coals; 

The  sickly  range  grass  withers  down  and  fails; 
The    bony   cattle   bawl   around    the    dryin'   water 

holes, 
Then  stagger  off  along  the  stony  trails. 

The  days  crawl  on  to  Summer  suns  that  slower 

blaze  and  wheel; 

The  mesas  heave  and  quiver  in  the  noon. 
The  mountains  they  are  ashes  and  the  sky  is  shinin' 

steel, 
Though   the  mockin'-birds   are   singin'   that  it's 

June. 
And  here  and  there  among  the  hills,  a-standin'  white 

and  tall, 

The  droopin'  plumes  of  yucca  flowers  gleam, 
The  buzzards  circle,  circle  where  the  starvin'  cattle 

fall 
And  the  whole  hot  land  seems  dyin'  in  a  dream. 


But  last  across  the  sky-line  comes  a  thing  that's 

strange  and  new, 

A  little  cloud  of  saddle  blanket  size. 
It  blackens  'long  the  mountains  and  bulges  up  the 

blue 

And  shuts  the  weary  sun-glare  from  our  eyes. 
Then  the  lightnin's  gash  the  heavens  and  the  thun 
der  jars  the  world 

And  the  gray  of  fallin'  water  wraps  the  plains, 
And  'cross  the  burnin's  ranges,  down  the  wind,  the 

word  is  whirled : 
"Here's  another  year  of  livin',  and  the  Rains!" 

You've  seen  your  fat  fields  ripplin'  with  the  treasure 

that  they  hoard; 
Have  you  seen  a  mountain  stretch  and  rub  its 

eyes? 
Or  bare  hills  lift  their  streamin'  faces  up  and  thank 

the  Lord, 

Fairly  tremblin'  with  their  gladness  and  surprise  ? 
Have  you  heard   the   'royos   singin'   and   the  new 

breeze  hummin'  gay, 

As  the  greenin'  ranges  shed  their  dusty  stains- 
Just  a  whole  dead  world  sprung  back  to  life  and 

laughin'  in  a  day! 
Did  you  ever  see  the  comin'  of  the  Rains? 


39 


THE  BORDER 

When  the  dreamers  of  old  Coronado, 

From  the  hills  where  the  heat  ripples  run, 
Made  a  dust  to  the  far  Colorado 

And  wagged  their  steel  caps  in  the  sun, 
They  prayed  like  the  saint  and  the  martyr 

And  swore  like  the  devils  below, 
For  a  man  is  both  angel  and  Tartar 

In  the  land  where  the  dry  rivers  flow. 

Ay,  the  Border,  the  sun  smitten  Border, 

That  fences  the  Land  of  the  Free, 
Where  the  desert  glares  grim  like  a  warder 

And  the  Rio  gleams  on  to  the  sea; 
Where  ruins,  like  dreamy  old  sages, 
Hint  tales  of  dead  empires  and  ages, 
Where  a  young  race  is  rearing  the  stages 
Of  ambitious  empires  to  be. 

Came  the  padres  to  soften  the  savage 

And  show  him  the  heavenly  goal; 
Came  Spaniards  to  piously  ravage 

And  winnow  his  flesh  from  his  soul; 
Then  miner  and  riotous  herder, 

Over-riding  white  breed  of  the  North, 
Brought  progress,  and  new  sorts  of  murder, 

And  a  kind  of  perpetual  Fourth. 


40 


Ay,  the  Border,  the  whimsical  Border, 

Deep  purples  and  dazzling  gold, 
Soft  hearts  full  of  mirthful  disorder, 

Hard  faces,  sun  wrinkled  and  old, 
Warm  kisses  'neath  patio  roses, 
Cold  lead  as  the  luck-god  disposes, 
Clean  valor  fame  never  discloses, 

Black  trespasses  laughingly  told ! 

Then  out  from  the  peaceful  old  places 

Walked  the  Law,  grave,  strong  and  serene, 
And  the  harsh  elbow-rub  of  the  races 

Was  padded,  with  writs  in  between. 
Then  stilled  was  the  strife  and  the  racket, 

That  neighborly  love  might  advance — 
With  a  knife  in  the  sleeve  of  its  jacket 

And  a  gun  in  the  band  of  its  pants. 

Ay,  the  Border,  the  bright,  placid  Border ! 

It  sleeps,  like  a  snake  in  the  sun, 
Like  a  "hole"  tamped  and  primed  in  due  order, 

Like  a  shining  and  full  throated  gun. 
But  the  dust-devil  dances  and  staggers 
And  the  yucca  flower  daintily  swaggers 
At  her  birth  from  a  cluster  of  daggers, 

And  ever  the  heat  ripples  run. 


Fierce,  hot,  is  the  Border's  bright  daytime, 

Calm,  sweet,  the  vast  night  on  its  plains; 
White  hell  on  the  mesas,  its  Maytime, 

A  green-and-gold  heaven,  its  Rains. 
It  is  grimmer  than  slumber's  dark  brother, 

'Tis  as  gay  as  the  mocking-bird  likes; 
It  loves  like  a  lioness  mother 

And  strikes  as  the  rattlesnake  strikes. 

Ay,  the  Border,  bewildering  Border, 
Our  youngest,  and  oldest,  domains, 

Where  the  face  of  the  Angel  Recorder 
Knits  hard  between  chuckles  and  pains, 

Vast  peace,  the  clear  sky's  earthly  double, 

Witch  cauldron  forever  a-bubble, 

Home  of  mystery,  splendor  and  trouble 
And  a  people  with  sun  in  their  veins. 


THE  BAD  LANDS 

No  fresh  green  things  in  the  Bad  Lands  bide; 

It  is  all  stark  red  and  gray, 
And  strewn  with   bones  that  had  lived  and  died 

Ere  the  first  man  saw  the  day. 
When  the  sharp  crests  dream  in  the  sunset  gleam 

And  the  bat  through  the  canyon  veers, 
You  will  sometimes  catch,  if  you  listen  long, 
The  tones  of  the  Bad  Lands'  mystic  song, 

A  song  of  a  million  years. 

The  place  is  as  dry  as  a  crater  cup, 

Yet  you  hear,  as  the  stars  shine  free, 
From  the  barren  gulches  sounding  up, 

The  lap  of  a  spawning  sea, 
A  breeze  that  cries  where  the  great  ferns  rise 

From  the  pools  on  a  new-made  shore, 
With  the  whip  and  whir  of  batlike  wings 
And  the  snarl  of  slimy,  fighting  things 

And  the  tread  of  the  dinosaur. 

Then  the  sea  voice  ebbs  through  untold  morns, 

And  the  jungle  voices  reign — 
The  hunting  howl  and  the  clash  of  horns 

And  the  screech  of  rage  and  pain. 


43 


Harsh  and  grim  is  the  old  earth  hymn 

In  that  far  brute  paradise, 
And  as  ages  drift  the  rough  strains  fall 
To  a  single  note  more  grim  than  all, 

The  crack  of  the  glacial  ice. 

So  the  song  runs  on,  with  shift  and  change, 

Through  the  years  that  have  no  name, 
And  the  late  notes  soar  to  a  higher  range, 

But  the  theme  is  still  the  same. 
Man's  battle-cry  and  the  guns'  reply 

Blend  in  with  the  old,  old  rhyme 
That  was  traced  in  the  score  of  the  strata  marks 
While  millenniums  winked  like  campfire  sparks 

Down  the  winds  of  unguessed  time. 

There's  a  finer  fight  than  of  tooth  and  claw, 

More  clean  than  of  blade  and  gun, 
But,  fair  or  foul,  by  the  Great  Bard's  law 

'Twill  be  fight  till  the  song  is  done. 
Not  mine  to  sigh  for  the  song's  deep  "why," 

Which  only  the  Great  Bard  hears. 
My  soul  steps  out  to  the  martial  swing 
Of  the  brave  old  song  that  the  Bad  Lands  sing, 

The  song  of  a  million  years. 


44 


THE  SPRINGTIME  PLAINS 

Heart  of  me,  are  you  hearing 

The  drum  of  hoofs  in  the  rains? 

Over  the  Springtime  plains  I  ride 

Knee  to  knee  with  Spring 

And  glad  as  the  summering  sun  that  comes 

Galloping  north  through  the  zodiac! 

Heart  of  me,  let's  forget 

The  plains  death  white  and  still, 

When  lonely  love  through  the  stillness  called 

Like  a  smothered  stream  that  sings  of  Summer 

Under  the  snow  on  a  Winter  night. 

Now  the  frost  is  blown  from  the  sky 

And  the  plains  are  living  again. 

Lark  lovers  sing  on  the  sunrise  trail, 

Wild  horses  call  to  me  out  of  the  noon, 

Watching  me  pass  with  impish  eyes, 

Gray  coyotes  laugh  in  the  quiet  dusk 

And  the  plains  are  glad  all  day  with  me. 

Heart  of  me,  all  the  way 

My  heart  and  the  hoofs  keep  time, 

And  the  wide,  sweet  winds  from  the  greening  world 

Shout  in  my  ears  a  glory  song, 

For  nearer,  nearer,  mile  and  mile, 

Over  the  quivering  rim  of  the  plains, 

Is  the  valley  that  Spring  and  I  love  best 

And  the  waiting  eyes  of  you ! 


45 


ON  THE  OREGON  TRAIL 

We're  the  prairie  pilgrim  crew, 

Sailin'  with  the  sun, 
Lookin'  West  to  meet  a  great  reward, 
Trailin'  toward  a  land  that's  new 

Like  our  fathers  done, 
Trustin'  in  our  rifles  and  the  Lord. 

A-llset!     Go  ahead! 
Out  the  prairie  trail. 

Leave  the  woods  and  settlements  behind. 
Trail  and  settle,  work  and  fight 
Till  the  rollin'  earth  is  white, — 
That's  the  law  and  gospel  of  our  kind. 

Desert  suns  and  throats  o'  dust, 

But  we  never  stop; 
Wimmin-folks  are  knittin'  as  they  ride. 
We're  a  breed  that,  when  we  must, 

Fight  until  we  drop, 
But  our  work  and  git-thar  is  our  pride. 

A-llset!     Go  ahead! 
Up  the  sandy  Platte. 
Leave  the  circle  smokin'  in  the  dawn, 
So  the  comin'  hosts  will  know, 
'Mongst  the  trails  of  buffalo 
Where  their  darin'  brother  whites  have  gone. 


Night  so  black  'twould  blind  a  fox, 

Yells  and  feathered  sleet, 
Aim  the  best  you  kin  and  trust  to  luck. 
Arrows  whang  the  wagon  box 

But  all  hell  kaint  beat 
Rifles  from  Missoury  and  Kentuck. 

A-ll  set!     Go  ahead! 
Leave  the  dead  to  sleep 
Till  the  desert  sees  the  Judgment  Day. 
Mourn  the  good  boys  laid  so  low, 
But  we'll  mourn  them  on  the  go — 
Pawnee !     Ogalalla !      Cl'ar  the  way ! 

Far  across  the  glarin'  plain 

See  the  mountain  peaks 
Glimmer  'long  the  edge  like  flecks  o'  foam. 
Shove!  you  oxen,  till  your  chain 

Stretches  out  and  squeaks; 
Somewhere  out  beyond  that  range  is  Home! 

A-ll  set!    Go  ahead! 
Trailin'  toward  the  West 
Till  the  sunset's  shinin'  flag  is  furled. 
Ay,  our  flag's  the  Western  skies, 
Flag  that  drew  our  fathers'  eyes, 
Flag  that  leads  the  white  man  'round  the  world, 


47 


THE  FOREST  RANGERS 

Red  is  the  arch  of  the  nightmare  sky, 

Red  are  the  mountains  beneath, 
Bright  where  a  million  red  imps  leap  high, 

Dancing  and  snapping  their  teeth. 

A  keen  fight!  a  clean  fight! 

Shoulder  your  shovels  and  follow 
Up,  while  they  stop  in  the  pines  at  the  top, 

Shooting  their  sparks  in  showers. 
Up,  with  your  hats  ducking  under  the  smoke  of  it, 
Next  to  the  scorch  of  it,  into  the  choke  of  it! 
Fight  for  the  ranch  in  the  hollow. 
Fight !  for  it  is  not  ours. 

Why  are  we  fighting  from  dark  to  day, 

From  summit  to  canyon  wall? 
Twice  for  the  Service,  and  once  the  pay — 

Most,  the  hot  fun  of  it  all! 

A  stand  fight!  a  grand  fight! 

Into  the  smother  we  wallow, 
Stopping  their  march  where  the  ridge  pines  parch 

Over  the  shriveling  flowers. 
Stick!  with   the  smoke  steaming  out  of  the  coats 

of  you, 

Sweat  in  the  eyes  of  you,  fire  in  the  throats  of  you ! 
Fight  for  the  ranch  in  the  hollow. 
Fight!  for  it  is  not  ours. 


THE  YELLOW  STUFF 

By  the  rim  rocks  on  the  hill 

The  canyon  side  is  rifted 
Where  Grasping  Gabe,  with  pick  and  drill, 

Once  mucked  and  shot  and  drifted. 
His  hairy  arms  were  never  still; 

His  eyes  were  never  lifted. 

The  yellow  stuff !    The  yellow  stuff ! 

All  day  his  steel  would  tinkle 
And  when  the  blast  roared  out  at  last 

He  scanned  each  rocky  wrinkle. 
That  tunnel's  face  was  life  to  him, 
And  joy  and  kids  and  wife  to  him 

Its  thread  of  yellow  twinkle. 

By  the  rim  rocks  where  he  wrought 

A  wall  that  looked  eternal 
Caved  in  one  day  and  Gabe  was  caught 

Snug  as  a  walnut  kernel, 
Shut  up  with  hunger,  thirst  and  thought 

In  dark  that  was  infernal. 

The  yellow  stuff!     The  yellow  stuff! 

Then  Gabe  forgot  its  uses, 
And  all  the  gold  the  hills  could  hold 

Looked  like  a  pair  of  deuces. 
No  joy  was  dust  and  ore  to  him; 
The  gold  outside  was  more  to  him 

That  slanted  through  the  spruces. 

49 


By  the  rim  rocks,  far  away 

From  helpers  or  beholders, 
Gabe  worked  a  lifetime  in  a  day, 

Then  shoved  out  head  and  shoulders 
And  cried  and  kissed  the  light  that  lay 

Upon  the  sunny  boulders. 

The  yellow  stuff!     The  yellow  stuff! 

He  blessed  the  sunset  shining, 
To  high  in  grade  to  be  assayed 

And  pure  beyond  refining. 
What  scum  his  work  had  doled  to  him, 
When  God  would  give  such  gold  to  him 

Without  a  lick  of  mining! 


THE  SHEEP-HERDER 

All  day  across  the  sagebrush  flat 

Beneath  the  sun  of  June, 
My  sheep  they  loaf  and  feed  and  blat 

Their  never  changin'  tune. 
And  then  at  night  time,  when  they  lay 

As  quiet  as  a  stone, 
I  hear  the  gray  wolf  far  away; 

"Alo-one!"  he  says,  "Alo-one!" 

A-a!  m-a!  ba-a!  eh-eh-eh! 

The  tune  the  woollies  sing  ; 
It's  rasped  my  ears,  it  seems,  for  years, 

Though  really  just  since  spring; 
And  nothin',  far  as  I  kin  see 

Around  the  circle's  sweep, 
But  sky  and  plains,  my  dreams  and  me 

And  them  infernal  sheep. 

I've  got  one  book — it's  poetry — 

A  bunch  of  pretty  wrongs 
An  Eastern  lunger  gave  to  me; 

He  said  'twas  "shepherd  songs." 
But  though  that  poet  sure  is  deep 

And  has  sweet  things  to  say, 
He  never  seen  a  herd  of  sheep, 

Or  smelt  them,  anyway. 


A-a!  ma-a!  ba-a!  eh-eh-eh! 

My  woollies  greasy  gray, 
An  awful  change  has  hit  the  range 

Since  that  old  poet's  day. 
For  you're  just  silly,  on'ry  brutes 

And  I  look  like  distress 
And  my  pipe  ain't  the  kind  that  toots 

And  there's  no  "shepherdess." 

Yet  'way  down  home  in  Kansas  State, 

Bliss  Township,  Section  Five, 
There's  one  that  promised  me  to  wait, 

The  sweetest  girl  alive. 
That's  why  I  salt  my  wages  down 

And  mend  my  clothes  with  strings, 
While  others  blow  their  pay  in  town 

For  booze  and  other  things. 

A-a!  ma-a!  ba-a!  eh-eh-eh! 

My  Minnie,  don't  be  sad; 
Next  year  we'll  lease  that  splendid  piece 

That  corners  on  your  dad. 
We'll  drive  to  "literary,"  dear, 

The  way  we  used  to  do 
And  turn  my  lonesome  workin'  here 

To  happiness  for  you. 


Suppose,  down  near  that  rattlers'  den, 

While  I  sit  here  and  dream, 
I'd  see  a  bunch  of  ugly  men 

And  hear  a  woman  scream. 
Suppose  I'd  let  my  rifle  shout 

And  drop  the  men  in  rows, 
And  then  the  woman  should  turn  out — 

My  Minnie! — just  suppose. 

A-a!  m-a!  ba-a!  eh-eh-eh! 

The  tune  would  then  be  gay; 
There  is,   I   mind,   a  parson  kind 

Just  forty  miles  away. 
Why  Eden  would  come  back  again 

With  sage  and  sheep  corrals, 
And  I  could  swing  a  singin'  pen 

To  write  her  "pastorals." 

I  pack  a  rifle  on  my  arm 

And  jump  at  flies  that  buzz; 
There's  nothin'  here  to  do  me  harm 

I  sometimes  wish  there  was. 
If  through  that  brush  above  the  pool 

A  red  should  creep — and  creep — 
Wah!  cut  down  on  'im!     Stop,  you  fool! 

That's  nothin'  but  a  sheep. 


A-a!  ma-a!  ba-a!— Hell! 

Oh,  sky  and  plain  and  bluff! 
Unless  my  mail  comes  up  the  trail 

I'm  locoed,  sure  enough. 
What's  that? — a  dust-whiff  near  the  butte 

Right  where  my  last  trail  ran, 
A  movin'  speck,  a — wagon!    Hoot! 

Thank  God!  here  comes  a  man. 


54 


THE  OLD  PROSPECTOR 

There's  a  song  in  the  canyon  below  me 

And  a  song  in  the  pines  overhead, 
As  the  sunlight  crawls  down  from  the  snow-line 

And  rustles  the  deer  from  his  bed. 
With  mountains  of  green  all  around  me 

And  mountains  of  white  up  above 
And  mountains  of  blue  down  the  sky-line, 

I  follow  the  trail  that  I  love. 

My  hands  they  are  hard  from  the  shovel, 

My  leg  is  rheumatic  by  streaks 
And  my  face  it  is  wrinkled  from  squintin' 

At  the  glint  of  the  sun  on  the  peaks. 
You  pity  the  prospector  sometimes 

As  if  he  was  out  of  your  grade. 
Why,  you  are  all  prospectors,  bless  you! 

I'm  only  a  branch  of  the  trade. 

You  prospect  for  wealth  and  for  wisdom, 

You  prospect  for  love  and  for  fame; 
Our  work  don't  just  match  as  to  details, 

But  the  principle's  mostly  the  same. 
While  I  swing  a  pick  in  the  mountains 

You  slave  in  the  dust  and  the  heat 
And  scratch  with  your  pens  for  a  color 

And  assay  the  float  of  the  street. 


55 


You  wail  that  your  wisdom  is  salted, 

That  fame  never  pays  for  the  mill, 
That  wealth  hasn't  half  enough  value 

To  pay  you  for  climbin'  the  hill. 
You  even  say  love's  El  Dorado, 

A  pipedream  that  never  endures — 
Well,  my  luck  ain't  all  that  I  want  it, 

But  I  never  envied  you  yours. 

You're  welcome  to  what  the  town  gives  you, 

To  prizes  of  laurel  and  rose, 
But  leave  me  the  song  in  the  pine  tops, 

The  breath  of  a  wind  from  the  snows. 
With  mountains  of  green  all  around  me 

And  mountains  of  white  up  above 
And  mountains  of  blue  down  the  sky-line, 

I'll  follow  the  trail  that  I  love. 


GOD  OF  THE  OPEN 

God  of  the  open,  though  I  am  so  simple 

Out  in  the  wind  I  can  travel  with  you, 
Noons  when  the  hot  mesas  ripple'  and  dimple, 

Nights  when  the  stars  glitter  cool  in  the  blue. 
Too  far  you  stand  for  the  reach  of  my  hand, 

Yet  I  can  feel  your  big  heart  as  it  beats 
Friendly  and  warm  in  the  sun  or  the  storm. 

Are  you  the  same  as  the  God  of  the  streets? 

Yours  is  the  sunny  blue  roof  I  ride  under; 

Mountain  and  plain  are  the  house  you  have  made. 
Sometimes  it  roars  with  the  wind  and  the  thunder 

But  in  your  house  I  am  never  afraid. 
He?     Oh,  they  give  him  the  license  to  live, 

Aim,  in  their  ledgers,  to  pay  him  his  due, 
Gather  by  herds  to  present  him  with  words — 

Words!     What  are  words  when  my  heart  talks 
with  you? 

God  of  the  open,  forgive  an  old  ranger 

Penned  among  walls  where  he  never  sees  through. 
Well  do  I  know,  though  their  God  seems  a  stranger, 

Earth  has  no  room  for  another  like  you. 
Shut  out  the  roll  of  the  wheels  from  my  soul; 

Send  me  a  wind  that  is  singing  and  sweet 
Into  this  place  where  the  smoke  dims  your  face. 

Help  me  see  you  in  the  God  of  the  street. 
57 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  TRAIL 

There  was  a  sunny,  savage  land 

Beneath  the  eagle's  wings, 
And  there,  across  the  thorns  and  sand, 

Wild  rovers  rode  as  kings. 
Is  it  a  yarn  from  long  ago 

And  far  across  the  sea? 
Could  that  land  be  the  land  we  know? 

Those  roving  riders  we? 

The  trail's  a  lane,  the  trail's  a  lane. 

How  comes  it,  pard  of  mine? 
Within  a  day  it  slipped  away 

And  hardly  left  a  sign. 
Now  history  a  tale-has  gained 

To"  please  the  younger  ears — 
A  race  of  kings  that  rose,  and  reigned, 

And  passed  in  fifty  years! 

Dream  back  beyond  the  cramping  lanes 

To  glories  that  have  been — 
The  camp  smoke  on  the  sunset  plains, 

The  riders  loping  in: 
Loose  rein  and  rowelled  heel  to  spare, 

The  wind  our  only  guide, 
For  youth  was  in  the  saddle  there 

With  half  a  world  to  ride. 


The  trail's  a  lane,  the  trail's  a  lane. 

Dead  is  the  branding  fire. 
The  prairies  wild  are  tame  and  mild, 

All  close-corralled  with  wire. 
The  sunburnt  demigods  who  ranged 

And  laughed  and  lived  so  free 
Have  topped  the  last  divide,  or  changed 

To  men  like  you  and  me. 

Where,  in  the  valley  fields  and  fruits, 

Now  hums  a  lively  street, 
We  milled  a  mob  of  fighting  brutes 

Among  the  grim  mesquit. 
It  looks  a  far  and  fearful  way — 

The  trail  from  Now  to  Then — 
But  time  is  telescoped  to-day, 

A  hundred  years  in  ten. 

The  trail's  a  lane,  the  trail's  a  lane. 

Our  brows  are  scarcely  seamed, 
But  we  may  scan  a  mighty  span 

Methuselah  ne'er  dreamed. 
Yet,  pardner,  we  are  dull  and  old, 

With  paltry  hopes  and  fears, 
Beside  those  rovers  gay  and  bold 

Far  riding  down  the  years! 


59 


LATIGO  TOWN 

You  and  I  settled  this  section  together; 

Youthful  and  mettled  and  wild  were  we  then. 
You  were  the  gladdest  town  out  in  the  weather; 

I  was  the  maddest  young  scamp  among  men. 
Latigo  Town,  ay,  Latigo  Town, 

Child  of  the  mesa  sun-flooded  and  brown, 
That  hour  of  gracious  romance  and  good  leather, 

Splendid,  audacious,  comes  never  again. 

Many  a  rover  as  brash  as  a  sparrow, 

Loping  in  over  the  amethyst  plains, 
Reined  for  your  spinning  roulette  and  your  faro, 

Light-hearted  sinning  and  fiddled  refrains. 
Latigo  Town,  ay,  Latigo  Town, 

We  made  a  past  you  are  still  living  down, 
Keen  for  a  tussle,  with  salt  in  our  marrow, 

Steel  in  our  muscles  and  sun  in  our  veins! 

Rowels  that  jingled   and  rigs  that  were  tattered, 

Yet  how  we  tingled  to  dreams  that  were  high! 
Slim  was  the  treasure  we  gathered  and  scattered, 

But  can  you  measure  the  wind  and  the  sky? 
Latigo  Town,  ay,  Latigo  Town, 

Freedom  and  youth  were  a  robe  and  a  crown. 
Then  we  were  bosses  of  riches  that  mattered, 

Laughing  at  losses  of  things  you  can  buy. 


60 


Town  that  was  fiery  and  careless  and  Spanish, 

Boy  that  was  wiry  and  wayward  and  glad- 
Over  the  border  to  limbo  they  vanish; 

Progress  and  order  decreed  they  were  bad. 
Latigo  Town,  ay,  Latigo  Town, 

Pursy  with  culture  and  civic  renown, 
Never  censorious  progress  can  banish 

Dreams  of  the  glorious  youth  that  we  had ! 


61 


THE  BUFFALO  TRAIL 

Deeply  the  buffalo  trod  it 

Beating  it  barren  as  brass; 
Now  the  soft  rain-fingers  sod  it, 
Green  to  the  crest  of  the  pass. 
Backward  it  slopes  into  history; 
Forward  it  lifts  into  mystery. 

Here  is  but  wind  in  the  grass. 

Backward  the  millions  assemble, 
Bannered  with  dust  overhead, 
Setting  the  prairie  a-tremble 

Under  the  might  of  their  tread. 
Forward  the  sky-line  is  glistening 
And  to  the  reach  of  our  listening 
Drifts  not  a  sound  from  the  dead. 

Quick,  or  the  swift  seasons  fade  it! 

Look  on  his  works  while  they  show. 
This  is  the  bison.    He  made  it. 

Thus  say  the  old  ones  who  know. 
This  is  the  bison — a  pondering 
Vague  as  the  prairie  wind  wandering 
Over  the  green  or  the  snow. 


62 


THE  CAMP  FIRE'S  SONG 

I   reared  your   fathers  long  ago — 

Big,  savage  children — from  the  breast, 

But  in  the  circle  of  my  glow 

You  sit  to-night  a  haughty  guest, 

For  far  beyond  their  artless  day 

Your  lofty  trail  has  stretched  away. 
So  wise!  so  wise! 

But  still  the  child  is  in  your  eyes. 

Your   fathers   feared   the  club   and   claw, 
Their  days  were  full  of  fight  and  flight; 

Behind  you  stands  your  mighty  law 
To  guard  your  lonely  sleep  to-night, 

Or,  if  some  lawless  brute  run  free, 

A  rifle  gleams  across  your  knee. 
So  strong!  so  wise! 

But  still  the  fear  is  in  your  eyes. 

They  filled  their  little  tents  with  spoil, 

Then  vaguely  longed   for  greater  things; 

Your  shining  cities  spurn  the  soil 

And   through  your  valleys  plenty  sings; 

You  span  the  seas  they  endless  deemed 

And  rule  a  world  they  never  dreamed. 
So  great!  so  wise! 

But  still  their  longing  in  your  eyes. 


They  made  them  gods  of  flood  and  fire; 

With  simple  awe  they  watched  the  stars; 
You  bend  all  powers  to  your  desire; 

The  river  gods  must  draw  your  cars, 
The  drudging  fire  gods  drive  your  fleets, 
The  lightning  slaves  about  your  streets. 

So  proud!   so  wise! 
Yet  their  old  wonder  in  your  eyes! 

They  dreamed  a  god  might  in  them  dwell 
Who  lived  beyond  the  silenced  heart; 

You  know  your  mortal  self  so  well — 
A  wondrous  thing  in  every  part, 

But  earthbound  as  this  gaunt  mesquite 

Or  firelit  dust  about  your   feet. 
So  hard!  so  wise! 

But  still  the  god  is  in  your  eyes. 

Poor  little  primal  thing  am  I, 

Great  stranger,  yet  I  mock  your  lore; 

Your  thickest  volumes  often  lie 

And  these  still  stars  could  tell  you  more, 

The  wind  that  sighs  across  the  sand 

Or   I,   but  could   you   understand? 
So  wise!  so  wise! 

A  puzzled  child  within  your  eyes. 


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